


good with words

by Yellow



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Bad Communication, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, The Gang Rescues Alyosha From The Forge, hadrian POV, trauma., weird hypnotic bullshit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-06 17:52:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14062221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yellow/pseuds/Yellow
Summary: arrell enlists hadrian to help save alyosha from the forge. everyone has to deal with the aftermath.





	good with words

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LuckyDiceKirby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuckyDiceKirby/gifts).



> working title: hadrian and arrell's excellent adventure.
> 
> happy happy birthday, sarah!

Hadrian tumbles out of the blade and sees Arrell sitting before him, leaning heavily on his staff.

He looks  _ tired, _ like he hasn't slept in days. There’s a clean, white bandage on his chin. He looks up when he sees Hadrian, sharp and grimly pleased.

“I tracked you here,” Arrell says, curt. “You’re going to lead me to Alyosha.” When Hadrian stares at him, blank, Arrell clears his throat. “Did you think I would have no recourse should you not deliver on your side of the bargain?”

He looks around Hadrian, as if hoping Alyosha was simply hiding. No one is there. He looks back at Hadrian, resigned. “Let's go.”

Hella, Lem, Adaire, and Adelaide spill out of the rift behind him.

“What?” Hadrian asks. Hella almost falls into him and he steadies her. “We-we have to go find Samot, right away.”

Arrell laughs.

“Samot, of course. That's a fool's errand,” he says. “But regardless, Hadrian, you owe me.”

Adaire looks back and forth from Arrell to Hadrian.

“Why do you owe this guy?”

“I'm protecting his son.”

It takes a moment, but Adaire says, “Shit.”

“You put your son in one of those-” Hella struggles for words. “Hadrian-”

“I needed him to be safe.”

“Hadrian-” She reaches out and puts a hand on his arm. He doesn’t shrug it off but turns, slight.

“Okay,” he says to Arrell. “I owe you. But after this, nothing more.”

“Good,” Arrell says, lips pursed.

Hadrian turns back to the rest of them.

“You still need to go,” he says. “I'll be there as soon as I can.”

Hella shoots him another look, moves to take him aside a moment. Adaire is glaring daggers at him, though that’s not new-Lem still looks a little distant. Adelaide has never spared him any mind.

Hadrian sighs, puts his hand over Hella’s on his arm. 

“I’ll write.”

Arrell stands, slow. Hadrian hears it: the way his staff scrapes on the ground before taking his full weight. Hella lets her hand drop and Hadrian steps back.

“Find Samot,” he says. She nods, lips pursed, and Arrell’s hand comes down on his shoulder, cold where Hella’s was warm. 

He sees the scene before him close, like the curtains of a window, and then they are somewhere else.

 

Arrell is off and walking, looser than he appeared before.

Hadrian stumbles after. 

“What happened.” Clipped.

Hadrian remembers the lick of panic at seeing Alyosha float away from him.

“It happened- fast,” he says. “He started floating up and away and, I couldn’t catch him, and I prayed and then he was. Somewhere else.”

Arrell stops. “You were supposed to protect him, not lead him by the nose into danger.” It’s hissed. “You could have stopped it-and prayer, as if your god has ever done anything but make a mess of this world and the ones below it-”

Hadrian draws himself up to his full height.

“I did what I could.”

Arrell looks up at him for a moment, eyes slits. Then he steps back.

“It was not enough.” He turns on his heel. 

“At least I was there.” It’s foolhardy. Hadrian’s hand went to his sword a few minutes ago. It’s sweaty, now. He changes his grip. 

Arrell doesn’t even flinch.

“Yes,” he says, barely stopping. Then he keeps moving, not even looking back at Hadrian.

Hadrian follows, a few feet behind.

  
  


The entrance to the forge is covered in vines.

Hadrian pushes through them and into the forge, and where the forge used to float in the Heat and the Dark now it floats in flowers. Gorgeous, colorful flowers as big as Hadrian's hand open all around them.

Behind him Hadrian hears Arrell push through the vines and then- “Alyosha,” he says, choked.

Alyosha is standing over the forge, hammering. At his feet lies a body. He does not look up.

“Aly-.” He swallows. “Alyosha,” Arrell says, walking towards him. “Are you alright?”

Alyosha does not look up, just continues hammering.

Arrell touches his shoulder, and Alyosha shrugs him off.

Hadrian walks closer. Alyosha is pale, paler than usual, legs shaking. But still he hammers. And Hadrian looks closer and-

“Arrell,” he says, and Arrell turns on him, scowling.

“Peace,” Hadrian says. “He's hammering-blood.”

And as they watch, every time Alyosha strikes the trail of blood dripping, beyond all reason,  _ up _ the anvil, new flowers sprout and grow and begin to eat at the Heat and the Dark.

“Alyosha- my love, you've done it,” Arrell breathes. “You're holding back the Heat and the Dark.”

He puts a hand over his face and laughs, a little hysterical. Hadrian watches the trail of blood, sees it thinning.

“Arrell,” he says, quiet, and Arrell turns to look just as Alyosha works the last drop.

He drops the hammer with a clank and the vines start growing, violently, exploding outwards. Alyosha falls forward, a hand on the anvil, and then faints dead.

Arrell catches him just before he hits his head on the anvil and gathers him close. Hadrian watches the entrance begin to close with leaves and thorns and flowers.

“Arrell,” he says, and Arrell readies his staff.

“Don't hurt the vines,” he says, “but we have to go  _ now _ .”

“Fine,” he says, lowering his staff, and they scramble through, dragging Alyosha, before the forge is swallowed whole.

They stumble out into the light. Alyosha is unconscious and Arrell looks at him with such a mixture of worry, terror and relief that Hadrian begins to reconsider everything he thought about their relationship.  
Arrell has him pulled close, and he presses his face into Alyosha’s hair and sighs. Hadrian has to look away.

“Where are we going next?” he chokes out.

Arrell takes a moment to collect himself.

“The old university. That’s where I told him-” He looks down at Alyosha. 

Hadrian nods. “We have to find our way out of this strata first.”

“Then we should start on our way.” Arrell has a different strength than Hadrian’s: lean and wiry. He still throws Alyosha over his shoulder in a carry without much trouble.

“If you need me to carry him-”

“I’ll be fine,” Arrell says, clipped, and that is that.

 

Alyosha makes a noise about two hours into their walk.

Arrell stops dead in his tracks.

“Alyosha?” He puts him down on the ground and crouches before him, turns his face toward him with a hand on his chin.

Hadrian steps closer. His eyes are closed but his breathing is faster, as if he’s awoken. 

Arrell shakes him, gentle.

“Alyosha, open your eyes,” he pleads, and Alyosha’s eyes slowly open.

He looks straight forward, eyes blank, and Hadrian’s mouth is dry.

“Arrell-”

“What?” Arrell snaps, turning back to look at him.

“He was in Samothes’s forge. And Eph-Prince Ephrim has an ability, from Samothes, where he can control people. Bend them like a flame.”

Suddenly Hadrian is pressed against a tree, hand to his throat. Alyosha sits silently behind them. Arrell pants.

“What,” he says, “is wrong with him.”

“He’s under some sort of spell,” Hadrian says, easing Arrell’s hand away from his throat. “I don’t know if I can fix it, but Ephrim-”

“Try,” Arrell growls. 

“It won’t work,” Hadrian says, even.

“Try.” It’s quieter this time. Hadrian glances at him and kneels next to Alyosha, turns his face towards Hadrian.

“Exarch,” Hadrian says. He puts his hands on Alyosha’s cheeks and closes his eyes, reaches for Alyosha.

“He’s there,” Hadrian says, finally. “He’s-far away.” Where usually Hadrian could feel him like a constant hearthfire, now he can see nothing more than a dim candle flame, far away. 

“Heal him,” Arrell says, and stabs his staff in the ground. He starts to pace.

Hadrian breathes deep and reaches for him. Tries to coax the flame higher. But every time he shapes his hands around it, it flickers worryingly, dances out of reach. Just as he’s about to pull back, Alyosha stirs, then settles. The flame glows brighter. He feels a little warmer. But he’s not awake.

Hadrian open his eyes. Arrell looks at him, wild-eyed. Hadrian shakes his head.

“We need Ephrim.”

 

The trip is long, slowed by Alyosha’s condition. He can walk for short stretches, heavily led, but Arrell usually just carries him, piggy-back. Hadrian trails them, watching for threats. He can still hear the soft stream of words as Arrell talks with him.

And then in the evenings, they make camp, and Arrell feeds Alyosha and washes his face so tenderly that Hadrian tries not to watch.

Arrell catches him looking, once.

“What?” he snaps, a strange look in his eye.

“Nothing,” Hadrian says, too fast. Then, “You-you’re close?”

Arrell looks at Alyosha for a moment.

“It’s not your concern,” he says, and leads Alyosha into their tent.

Hadrian sleeps outside. He is the navigator, he is the muscle. Arrell has other concerns.

  
  


Their arrival in camp is news. Hadrian shoos away onlookers and clears a path ahead of them and asks after Ephrim, and then they are outside of a small tent where Ephrim is said to live.

Hadrian shoots Arrell a look and calls into the tent.

“Prince Ephrim,” he says, his voice cracking a little on “Prince.”

There’s a noise from inside the tent, and then Ephrim pushes the tent flap open with an arm. 

“Hadrian?”

He sees Arrell and moves to attack, then staggers. Hadrian realizes with a jolt he’s missing an arm.

Then he sees Alyosha.

Something like guilt settles on Ephrim’s face. He glances at Hadrian, sharp.

“He stays outside,” Ephrim says, not even looking at Arrell.

Arrell bristles, tightens his free hand on his staff. Alyosha slumps against him. Then his whole body goes relaxed, head bowed. 

“Please,” Arrell says, eyes on the ground.

Ephrim eyes him.

“You leave as soon as he is well.”

“Gladly,” Arrell spits. 

Ephrim glowers.

“Fine,” he says, and pushes the tent flap open. Hadrian glances at Arrell and enters, holding it open behind him.

The tent is small but cozy. There’s a makeshift workbench in the corner. There are no symbols of Samothes, and bandages are hung to dry on a rack. Ephrim has a small, ramshackle desk and chair; he leads Arrell to sit Alyosha there. He sighs.

Ephrim takes Alyosha's face in his hands. Beside him, Arrell bristles. Hadrian puts a hand on his shoulder.

“I'm sorry I couldn't do more for you,” Ephrim whispers, then his eyes flash.

Alyosha's eyes clear and he blinks. Ephrim takes his hands away, slow, and Arrell leans forward, asks, “Alyosha?”

It takes Alyosha a minute to focus on anyone but Ephrim; he reaches out and grabs his hands and says, fierce, “You killed him. You killed him. Thank you.”

And then he sees Arrell and his face crumples.

“Tutor,” he says, reaching out, and Arrell's face breaks with relief. He gathers Alyosha up, kisses his forehead.

“He was so cruel,” Alyosha sobs, and Arrell starts helping him to his feet, helping him walk.

“He was so cruel,” Hadrian hears again as they leave, and then a soft, “I know, love, I know.”

Ephrim turns to Hadrian when they're gone.

“He deserves better than Arrell,” Ephrim spits.

“Who am I to judge,” Hadrian says, short, exhausted, and leaves the tent.

 

He doesn’t see them for hours, and when he does, it’s Arrell alone, looking drawn. 

“He need to eat,” he says by way of greeting.

Hadrian sighs. 

“The mess tent is that way.”

Arrell looks back at the tent, pensive.

“I can’t-” He purses his lips. “Will you-watch him.”

Hadrian nods, slow. 

Arrell watches him enter the tent before he leaves. 

 

Alyosha is awake.

“He’s gone?” he asks, quiet, hint of a smile on his face.

“Yes.” Hadrian pauses. “Did he think you were asleep?”

“He’s worrying like a mother hen,” Alyosha says, voice fond. He licks his lips. “I wish-but. Hadrian.”

“Yes?”

“That wasn’t Him.”

Hadrian shivers.

“I saw-He was-”

“It wasn’t,” Alyosha says, voice shaking, hand fisted in his blanket. “It wasn’t Him.”

“You’re right,” Hadrian says. 

Alyosha sighs, sinks down into the pillows. “Thank you.”

Arrell shoulders his way through the tent flap with two bowls of soup and startles when he sees Alyosha’s awake.

He sets the soup down and brushes Alyosha’s hair out of his face, starts to chide him for waking up so soon.

Then he turns to Hadrian.

“He needs rest.”

Hadrian looks past Arrell to Alyosha.

“I’ll talk to you later. There’s much to tell.” Arrell narrows his eyes at Hadrian.

“Thank you,” Alyosha says, and Hadrian leaves to the quiet murmur of voices.

 

Hadrian brings them dinner the next night. They sit in awkward silence until Arrell leaves to fetch more water.

Hadrian clears his throat, once, twice.

Alyosha sighs. “Thank you for bringing us dinner.”

“I’m sorry,” Hadrian blurts. “I’m sorry, I tried-”

Alyosha is quiet, smiling grimly at his empty bowl.

“Would that many things were different,” he says finally. He looks up at Hadrian. “But it’s not your fault.”

Hadrian exhales, slow.

“Thank you.”

Alyosha nods.

“I had felt-distant.”

Hadrian nods, shifting.

“He-” Hadrian pauses. “He’s in Hella’s blade.”

Alyosha watches him. Hadrian starts to pace, runs his hands over his face.

“He’s in Hella’s blade and He’s generous and loving and warm and-He’s everything I dreamed of, Alyosha.”

“Why didn’t-who was that, then?” Alyosha snaps. “What Samothes was that, and why was I chosen to meet Him?”

Alyosha starts to cry.

Hadrian glances at the tent flap.

“I’m sorry,” Hadrian says, and puts a hand on his shoulder.

Arrell shoves through the flap, glaring. The water sloshes in the cup. “What did you say to him,” he hisses. 

“Tutor-”

Arrell takes Alyosha’s hand and stares at Hadrian.

“I think you should leave now.”

“I’m sorry,” he says again, and retreats as Arrell crouches down and pulls Alyosha close to him, soothing him with quiet words.

 

Hadrian is still getting used to the sun. It is dark now, and he feels its absence as keenly as a dog who misses its master, not knowing they will return.

Hadrian idly pokes at the fire. He thinks of the way Ephrim’s flames were colored purple, the way he watched Ephrim sit here and fumble, one-handed, with matches until Hadrian gently took them from him.

There’s the soft noise of shuffling feet and Hadrian looks up to see Alyosha standing above him, pale, ghost-like.

Hadrian jumps to his feet and offers him an arm; Alyosha deflects with a hand and a strained smile.

“I must apologize,” he says, quiet, as he settles across from Hadrian.

Hadrian glances around for Arrell, almost unconsciously. Alyosha smiles again, a little more genuine. 

“You need not fear. He’s asleep.”

Hadrian nods.

“I should be the one to apologize,” he says, uncertain.

Alyosha sighs.

“It was-difficult. It was.” He stares at the fire, then looks away. “I loved Him,” he says, rough.

“As do I,” Hadrian said, eager. “And He’s good, Alyosha, He’s-”

Alyosha laughs, soft. “Then where was He when I prayed, desperate, when I was lost in the heat-in the dark-”

“He’s trapped,” Hadrian says. “He sent us to help.”

“Why isn’t He here? Why couldn’t He leave if you could?”

“He had to stay for the city he built-something about Him keeps it whole-”

“Those people are dead,” Alyosha says, quiet. “There is no use in saving the dead.”

He looks just past the fire, like he can’t bear to watch it.

“Ephrim only has one arm.”

“Yes,” Hadrian says, unsteady.

“What happened to him?”

“I haven’t figured out how to ask,” Hadrian says, clumsy, ashamed. 

Alyosha nods, like this was what he expected.

“You’re a good man, Hadrian.” He looks at him, and the corner of his mouth quirks up. He’s always looked sickly, but he looks drawn now in a way he didn’t. “But look around you.”

 

Hadrian sees Alyosha with Ephrim more and more, Arrell hovering. Most of the time Alyosha seems to allow it with an air of good humor, but more than once he sees Alyosha scold him until he slinks away.

Hadrian finds him in the woods, running through staff combat forms. Hadrian clears his throat.

 

“We could spar.”

Arrell throws a lightning bolt at a nearby tree.

Hadrian’s mouth sets in a flat line. “There’s no need for dramatics.”

“I couldn’t protect him, and now he doesn’t even want to see me.” Arrell won’t turn to look at him.

He tilts his head to the side.

“You’re married,” he says, vague. “Do you-how do you-”

Hadrian swallows past the sudden longing for Rosana.

“I. I write.”

Arrell laughs, once, and then can’t seem to stop.

“Yes,” he says. “I’ll try writing him letters. Thank you, Hadrian.”

Hadrian doesn’t understand the joke. He asks to spar again. Arrell accepts, and knocks him to the ground, three times out of five.

Hadrian isn’t used to someone who uses tricks instead of mostly brute strength. He tells Arrell this, and Arrell looks just past him, nods. By the time they get back to camp it’s dark. Arrell disappears into his and Alyosha’s tent and that’s the last Hadrian sees of him until morning.

 

Breakfast is a thin oatmeal with cinnamon. Hadrian has learned Red Jack takes the cooking duties most mornings, and he’s thankful: he does well with what he has. Throndir is on a mission for the Golden Lance, somewhere nearby. That’s all Ephrim will say.

Alyosha joins Hadrian where he sits alone. Hadrian jumps, slight, and Alyosha laughs. 

“Hello,” he says, slightly wary.

“Hello, Hadrian,” Alyosha says. There’s a pause. “Ephrim told me the story of Samothes and His son.” Hadrian nods.

“I shouldn’t have taken out my anger on you,” Alyosha says. “It was wrong.”

Hadrian frowns at his spoon.

“He  _ was _ cruel,” Hadrian says, soft. He sighs, puts the spoon down. “I was responsible. I’m sorry for all of your suffering.”

“It was Him,” Alyosha says, in a careful voice. “You did your best.” It sounds as if he’s repeated it often.

“Is there anything I can do?”

Alyosha purses his lips. 

“It’s just going to be time. It’s just going to be time.”

Hadrian nods, eats. 

“But,” Alyosha says, wobbly smile on his face. “Tell me of our Lord. Our true Lord.”

Hadrian does, tentative at first. Alyosha leans his head back and closes his eyes, a flower to the sun. 

“You will love Him,” Hadrian says. “And He will love you.”

Alyosha has tears in his eyes.

“I will trust in you, Hadrian,” he says, and smiles. Hadrian smiles back.

 

Hadrian rises early the next morning and walks the camp, reveling in the way the sun paints the sky colors as it rises.

He sees Arrell, bundled up. He calls out and Arrell turns, slow.

“Hadrian.”

“Arrell.” Hadrian glances at his full pack. “What are you-”

“Alyosha is well. It’s time for me to go.”

Hadrian looks at him.

“Does he know?”

Arrell just looks at him.

“He loves you,” Hadrian says, and Arrell flinches.

“I know.” His voice sounds like the words were scraped out of his throat with a scalpel.

“Tutor,” comes a voice from behind them. Arrell tenses immediately.

“Alyosha,” he says. Hadrian steps back.

“You’re leaving.”

“I have to-you’re better-”

“I am not,” Alyosha says, clipped. “You’re running again.”

Arrell sags. 

“Ephrim won’t make you leave if I ask,” Alyosha says, low. He purses his lips. “If you leave now, I will never speak to you again. I can’t do this anymore.”

He steps closer. Arrell looks frozen. Alyosha puts a hand to his face.

“I read your letter,” he says, so soft Hadrian almost can’t hear it. “You don’t need to protect me. Just stay. And when you leave take me with you.”

Arrell hesitates, swallowing hard. 

Alyosha laughs, rough. “It’s not like it matters where I am. I’ll get hurt either way. I want to be with you.”

“Okay,” Arrell says, dazed, and brings a hand up to cover Alyosha’s. Alyosha kisses him. Hadrian turns away, heat rising in his face, until Alyosha clears his throat, amused. He’s holding Arrell’s hand.

“Hadrian,” he says. “You've been away from your mission for a time, now. And I think I'll be fine," he says, squeezing Arrell's hand. Arrell turns pink. Alyosha smiles, slight. "You need to go, yes?"

“I do,” he says, avoiding their eyes.

Arrell sighs, heavy. “I can’t-I owe your friends a debt. But I’m leaving, soon, and I will find a solution. When you realize Samot can’t do anything to stop this, I will accept your help, gladly.”

“I follow my Lord.”

“Samothes or Samot?” Arrell asks, wry. He shakes his head. “Be well, Hadrian.”

 

Hadrian shakes his hand, then Alyosha’s, and by noon he’s said his goodbyes and set off for Samot. For Hella, and Adaire and Lem and even Adelaide, possibly. He realizes, absently, he didn’t write. 

He thinks about the way the flowers burst from the hammer, the way Alyosha swayed at the forge as the vines ate the void behind them. The way Alyosha laughed, bitter, the way the bandages looked hanging in Ephrim’s tent, damp and stark white in the candlelight. The strange way Arrell sparred.

Hadrian plays with his ring. Some things are best said in person, or not said at all. He’s never been very good with words, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> There is at LEAST one highly sad handjob in the tent (after the sparring scene def) that Hadrian has no idea is happening. 
> 
> find me @capricioustube on twitter


End file.
